


Distraction

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:10:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6757324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Boyd attempts to offer Grace friendship and support. Response to a challenge issued by Joodiff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

**Distraction**

* * *

No matter how many visits Boyd makes to this room, whether to sit with her for the entire duration, or just to spend the few minutes with her he can spare on that particular day, he still feels the chill of the place. It's not actually cold, but there is a presence in the very walls, as invisible and malevolent as the hideous disease this building was built to battle.

Ignoring the machine dripping a cocktail of toxic chemicals into her bloodstream is damn near impossible – Grace looks frail, worn. Scared. Not emotions he would ever have associated with her. And today she is wrapped in layers, the bulky clothing and blankets hiding her from view, almost, with a hat pulled down low over her forehead as well, but the sartorial choices seem to be doing their job because today there is no shivering. Today, at least, she is relaxing back into the armchair, eyes partly closed as she dozes slightly, listening to him talk as he shares the latest news from their underground lair.

Spencer trying to fit back in; Kat's insubordination. Eve's perpetual weirdness.

A soft smile, more a hint than the real thing, plays across her lips and he memorises the sight, pulls it in tight to his heart and takes it as a sign that today she is okay. Today she is hanging on.

Fighting.

Standing on the side-lines is possibly the hardest thing he's ever done, but what else is there? He can't fight this for her, though he would if he could.

A tube twists away from the back of her other hand and his eyes follow it, wary, deeply conflicted. How can poison be good for her?

"Cleaning lady unearthed these yesterday," he tells her, producing a handful of old photos from the inside pocket of his coat. "I thought they might entertain you a little."

Grace opens her eyes, gazing over at him in curiosity as he hands her the pictures that he'd thought long lost in the depths of the cupboard under the stairs, which over the years has become something of a receptacle for all things annoying, unimportant and in-the-way.

Fingers brush together as he hands over her treat, and it's not the icy cold of her skin that he notices first, but the shock that travels up his arm at her touch.

Her name dies on his lips as the protective side of his mind screams at him.  _Say nothing! Look at her – do you really think she needs anything else to worry about right now?_

She smiles at him, eyes gentle and kind; murmurs a soft thanks and he throws caution to the wind, dares to reach out and take her free hand, to squeeze slightly in a show of friendship, solidarity and something else he's not quite sure how to express. What it would be like to drown in that deep, deep blue, he wonders as they stare at one another, almost into one another for one all-to-brief moment. To get swept up in the tide of all the things he sees in her, feels about her?

Boyd watches her face as she studies each frozen moment of time, each memory from his first weeks in the force and the transition from uniformed beat officer to young sergeant, and then DI. There are also pictures from Met sporting events among the collection, and a couple of group shots containing people she says she remembers from her early days of consulting. They share memories, funny stories, and he basks in the simple joy of watching a genuine smile light up her entire face. Of easing her mind - and his.

It used to be such a common thing, arguments and stressful caseloads aside; the two of them used trade quiet smiles here and there in the odd moments, the peaceful moments, the grim humour-filled moments, too. But lately…

He'd give anything to have her back at her desk, to bounce ideas off her over files and a cup of tea. To hear her arguing back at him, bristling in tenacious defiance at his stubborn, high-handed ways. To tell him he's wrong, and cut him down with a single glare or cutting remark.

_Don't think about it! Just enjoy this moment for what it is._

He can't have it, though. Might not ever have it again, and that's something he simply doesn't know how to deal with.

_But I l–_ he shuts the thought down before it has a chance to go any further, prepares to yank up the defences necessary to front the argument with himself as to why he had to, but there's no need. He's distracted by laughter. Grace's laughter.

One look at her confirms she has been gripped by the sort of amusement that ripples cleanly through the entire body, seizing every muscle and fibre in its intense, overwhelming concentration. Her shoulders are shaking and tears are building in her eyes, and he simply stops and stares.

It's a beautiful sight. The life and the energy crackling through her as she giggles and reaches for a tissue… It is absolutely arresting.

He forgets everything. Forgets the disease that has brought them here, forgets the brutal treatment she is enduring in a bid to fight back. Forgets work and policing, the outside world and its worries.

There is only her and her happiness, her moment of being vibrantly, beautifully vivid and alive.

_She's stunning. Perfect._

It takes a while for the spell to wear off, but eventually it slowly dawns on Boyd that there must be a reason for her reaction, and that given he was the one to provide her with the stack of photographs…

His heart lurches a little as he lifts a questioning brow, and he doesn't even need to ask the question, because Grace is holding up the evidence.

Oh. Damn.

He'd forgotten all about that.

It's an old photo, one taken on a family holiday when Luke was young. A trip to a famous theme park in the States, and accordingly he wore an appropriately… mouse-eared... shirt. Alongside a moustache. And questionably cropped hair.

Fashion never looks as good, years after the fact.

Even so, quite why she's as amused as she is, Boyd really can't fathom. Then again, after the preceding stack of similar and rather institutional memories, he can see how that particular shot is… a little different.

But…

Never mind.

Today it doesn't matter.

Settling back in his seat he merely smiles and enjoys the view, knowing full well, as Grace looks up at him again, her eyes absolutely gleaming with mischief, that he's never going to live this one down. Maybe that's not good, but today though… today he is simply going to enjoy every minute he has with her, because tomorrow is still agonisingly unknown.


End file.
